


this graveyard is a beautiful garden

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bruises, Established Relationship, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Slice of Life, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, the immense joy i feel tagging these fools as the soft bastards they are is immaculate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27987771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: Gently, he turns in Jaskier’s arms, pressing their chests together. He looks at Jaskier’s face, slack with sleep and still the same now as it was almost thirty years ago when they first met, and runs his fingertips ghost-soft across the breadth of his forehead, the arch of his brow, the curve of his nose, the swell of his cheek, the bow of his lips, the fullness of his chin.He takes Jaskier in as a whole, first, and then in pieces, one by one, individual parts of the masterpiece that his lover is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 152





	this graveyard is a beautiful garden

**Author's Note:**

> this is so beautifully self-indulgent and everything is good and nothing hurts 
> 
> title is from _rhenish autumn _by guillaume apollinaire because i like the idea of geralt accepting the bad parts of himself and acknowledging that there are good parts of himself, too <3__

It’s the yellow-white sunlight that rouses Geralt from sleep. It shines through the window they left open last night to listen to the sound of the rainfall, covering their room in a sort of golden glow that feels a little bit too ethereal for this inn they found shoved into a small fishing town just off the coast. He’s warm and bare, nestled in Jaskier’s arms, who’s wrapped solidly around him so completely that Geralt almost thinks they are one. A smile teases at the corners of his mouth, and he doesn’t bother to hide it in the meat of his forearm.

He indulges the heat for a moment, allowing himself to relax and appreciate the warmth at his back. It’s hot between his body and Jaskier’s, but not unbearably so; being held in Jaskier’s arms like this warms him from the inside out without burning any inch of his skin and, by the gods, he deserves a little bit of tenderness.

Gently, he turns in Jaskier’s arms, pressing their chests together. He looks at Jaskier’s face, slack with sleep and still the same now as it was almost thirty years ago when they first met, and runs his fingertips ghost-soft across the breadth of his forehead, the arch of his brow, the curve of his nose, the swell of his cheek, the bow of his lips, the fullness of his chin.

He takes Jaskier in as a whole, first, and then in pieces, one by one, individual parts of the masterpiece that his lover is. In all the years Geralt has walked this world, he has never met anyone quite like Jaskier; they don’t make them like him anymore. He’s the one and the only, and he’s Geralt’s, all Geralt’s. 

He loves this man. He loves Jaskier with his entire soul—all that he is and all that he will ever be is held in the hands of Jaskier, who has loved him, and loved him, and loves him still.

He leans forward and presses a kiss between Jaskier’s brows.

Easily, carefully, he extracts himself from Jaskier’s clinging embrace. He stands and grabs the sheets, wrapping the fabric around his waist as he steps over his armor and Jaskier’s lute and their discarded clothing.

The mirror above the washbasin is clean, free of fog. In it, Geralt’s reflection is a mess: his hair is tangled, half up and half down from the leather band that Jaskier was too impatient to remove last night, and his cheek is creased where his face was shoved in the pillow. His eyes—the same color as the golden sunlight; honey-sweet and enthralling, according to Jaskier—are big and wide, and he isn’t scared of them anymore.

He hurries to wash his face free of sleep with the lukewarm water; the faint splashes permeate in the room and mingle with the faraway sound of waves lapping at the shore. Later, when Jaskier wakes up and they’ve gotten some food in their bellies, they’ll traipse toward the sea and swim in a small pool just around a bend in the rocks, and kiss, and love another till they are gasping, sweaty and sated and sweet, and stay until the moon appears and the stars come out to twinkle in time with their mingled breaths.

The sheet wrapped around his waist slips from his grasp and drops to the floor. He bends to grab it back up, but notices, in the mirror, that his body is dotted with small purple-red-blue-green-yellow bruises. His brows knit and he frowns; he steps a bit away from the mirror to get a better look at himself and presses a finger into one of the largest bruises on the inside of his thigh, and hisses at the sharp pain, and then his face softens and his heart flutters when he remembers.

Last night, Jaskier loved him so good, so thoroughly. He used his fingers to tease Geralt, and then his mouth to bring Geralt to the very edge, and then his body to push Geralt over that proverbial precipice past the point of no return, following along after him not long after.

The bruise on his inner thigh came from Jaskier’s fingers squeezing Geralt as he lowered himself down on Jaskier’s length. The bruise on his collarbone, pink-red, is from Jaskier’s teeth as he bit into Geralt’s skin to muffle his laughter at Geralt’s insistent whining and babbling. The bruise on the side of his neck, yellow-green and faint, so faint, is from Jaskier’s suckling. The bruise on his pectoral, just above a pink-white scar, is from Jaskier’s worship as he whispered words of praise into Geralt’s skin like balm. The constellation of bruises on his hip, arranged in the pattern of Jaskier’s fingers, are from Jaskier anchoring himself to Geralt as the two of them came together for the first time, and the second time, and the third time.

He wears the fragments of Jaskier’s love on his body like an intimate set of clothing. He is a work of art—his skin is a pale backdrop, bare and untouched, and his scars are stories of his survival, given a new life through Jaskier’s reverence, and the bruises are dots of color, remnants of his love, their love. His eyes—gold, like honey, like the sun—are bright and vivid, and, for once, he sees in himself a portion of what Jaskier must see in him.

He smiles, and then laughs, half-giddy, and covers his mouth with his hand to muffle his chuckles, and then smiles some more.

Behind him, there’s a rustle of skin and cotton fabric, and he looks over his shoulder to see that Jaskier is rousing. He stretches in the warm sunlight, lazy like a cat full from hunting; his body, bare and delicious, is on display, and Geralt feels a hot, simmering heat begin to boil in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his lover.

“Good morning,” Jaskier says, voice heavy with sleep. His eyes, bluer than the sky and the ocean, shine in the sunlight as they rake across Geralt’s body hungrily, happily. “You’re covered in bruises.”

Geralt nods. “They’ll be gone soon,” he replies, hoping that Jaskier hears the regret in his voice at the knowledge that he can’t keep the physical evidence of Jaskier’s passion on his body—hoping that Jaskier understands how _good_ he feels, how much he _needs_ this, if only to remind himself that his graveyard of a body can be a beautiful garden when touched with love. “I like it. They make me look like I’m yours.”

“You are mine.”

Yes. Yes, he is. He is Jaskier’s friend, protector, witcher, lover. Just as Jaskier is his.

Geralt is a restrained man. The thing is, though—he loves ardently, completely; he is full of a desire to be cared for that is so relentless that it could drain the sea and rattle the sky to the ground. And Jaskier has given that liberation to him, unleashed the frightened boy who hid beneath the exterior he had to build in order to survive this world. Jaskier shoved himself inside of Geralt and cracked his ribs, rearranged his insides, and he has made Geralt lighter, softer; he has given Geralt peace.

And he wants to carry that, physically, on his body, in the same way that he carries it in his heart and soul and mind. He wants to carry Jaskier’s love in bruises from fingers, in red splotches of skin from laughing too hard, in areas rubbed raw by Jaskier’s beard as he kisses Geralt’s flesh.

He wants to carry Jaskier’s love with him when they are parted, as if it were a third sword, another weapon to use to protect himself. He wants a reminder that Jaskier loved him first and loved him last, and will love him in the moments between and after.

“Yeah.” Geralt smiles. “I am.”

Jaskier’s eyes hold Geralt’s, blue and steady. “Come back to me, darling,” he says, and smiles, and reaches his hand out, and Geralt feels, almost, as if he is seeing Jaskier again for the first time all over again. “Let’s stay in bed for a little longer.”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers)


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